


Four Funerals and a Wedding

by hellotomyoldheart



Series: aren't you curious? [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Maria Hill, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Wakes & Funerals, blackhill - Freeform, probably idk yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellotomyoldheart/pseuds/hellotomyoldheart
Summary: “Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”Four times Natasha went to a funeral and one time she went to a wedding.





	Four Funerals and a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! it's been a month since seeing y'all!! I'm working on another longer Natasha fic and I wrote this to put off writing that one. the book that is referenced in this fic is Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides by Anne Carson. the title is mimic of four weddings and a funeral. This story is all over and I lowkey hate it but I'm posting it anyway. enjoy!!

One.

Shortly after she left the Red Room, Natasha went to a funeral for the first time. 

Natasha thought it was pointless. Why are they crying? There is no reason to be crying. Someone is dead. Someone is going to be born. There is nothing to be sad about. There is nothing to mourn. It’s just life. It’s always been life. And death. 

Clint Barton or Hawkeye made her go. He said it was out of respect. “Someone is dead,” he had said. “Someone we know. We’re going to the funeral.”

“There’s no point,” Natasha had answered. “It’s just death. I don’t understand why we have to go to a funeral and cry when there is nothing to cry about. Someone is dead. Life moves on.”

Clint rubbed his forehead and sighed deeply, Natasha watched him closely. His eyes were red and sunken in. He looked ten years older than he was. “Because. Because. Someone is not going to go home to their families, they won’t be there at dinner, won’t be there is kiss their spouse goodnight. Won’t be there to tuck in their kids or save our asses on the field. Someone is dead, and yes, life goes on. But something is changed. Someone is gone and won’t ever be back.”

Natasha was quiet. She had nothing to say. 

“Funerals are the worst, trust me, they are. But when someone you know dies- you go to the funeral wearing black and say sorry for your loss and send your love and flowers and that doesn’t do shit because it doesn’t bring them back but it’s the right goddamn thing to do,” Clint continues. “Now get dressed and help me tie my tie. We have to stop at the flower shop on the way.”

Natasha wears a black dress with black heels. Her arm is looped with Clint’s most of the service. _ I just can’t believe it, _ so many people say. _ I can’t believe it. _

The child, a fifteen or sixteen year old girl with stone eyes that do not cry. Everyone comes up to her and her mother, saying sorry for your loss, saying we’re here for you, saying we just can’t believe it, saying he was such a good man, saying you’re so strong. Saying pointless words that they might mean but don't mean anything because someone is dead. 

The girl hates every moment of it. Natasha can tell. After the eulogy and after most people have filtered out, the girl sits on a staircase behind the church. It’s too cold for that and she only has a long-sleeved dress on. Natasha grabs the girl’s coat and sits down next to her.

“Here,” Natasha says, handing the teenager her coat. It’s blue and puffy and clashes with her black outfit and ugly day. “It’s cold.”

She takes the coat and stuffs her arms through the sleeves, folding into herself. 

“Who are you?” she asks and Natasha shrugs. 

“Nat,” she answers, looking out at the field behind the church. “I worked with him. Didn’t know him.”

“Then why are you here?” she questions. Her voice isn’t angry or annoyed, just tired. Just worn out. 

“My friend made me go. This is the first funeral I’ve gone to.”

“This is the first funeral I’ve hosted,” she answers with a dry chuckle. “You’re a little old for this to be your first funeral.”

Natasha looks at the zippers on her heeled boots, “well. It is. Where I grew up there weren’t funerals for the dead. They just died.”

The girl squinted her eyes at Natasha as she rested her elbows on her knees. “Were you in a cult or some shit?”

Natasha barks out a laugh, “you could call it that. But I don’t really know what it was.”

A few beats of quiet. The girl spoke again. “Aren’t you gonna say sorry for your loss or something?”

Natasha looked at her and shook her head, “no.”

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Sorry?” she pushed. “Are you sorry? For my loss?

“No,” Natasha answers. “I’m not. I do wish you a flood of love and support. He is gone and you won't ever be the same but I'm not sorry. You don't need my pity in order to know he is gone. To be valid to hurt."

The girl tips her head and wells up with tears, “I don’t know if I’m angry or happy you’ve said that.”

Natasha smiles, “maybe you’re both.”

Natasha doesn’t even know this girl’s name, Natasha hardly knew her father, is only here because Clint told her to come. Natasha doesn’t know this girl. But she knows death like an old dance partner and she is willing to teach someone the steps.

Two.

The next funeral she goes to is while she is undercover. She is accompanying her “boyfriend” to his best friend’s funeral. Her boyfriend killed his best friend. Natasha knows this. That’s why she’s there. 

It’s too hot outside for an outdoor funeral, the air is sticky with humidity and her hair clings to the back of her neck. Her _ boyfriend, _who is really a job and she’s undercover, holds her hand and steps away to grab her a cold drink of water. She kisses his cheek and almost means it.

But she will turn him in soon, Natasha knows this. And this funeral and name and _ boyfriend _will be nothing but a mission. But right now. Right now her name is Abbie and she has blue-tipped hair and she has never touched a gun in her life. 

The man didn’t have a wife but he had an on and off girlfriend who is crying by the casket. There are people around Natasha’s age, a few younger, few older. It’s a funeral but doesn’t seem like one. It seems too blown out, too teenage TV drama. Natasha wants to mourn but she can’t. It doesn’t feel right.

Funerals don’t feel right.

She says her respects to the correct people, holds hands with her “boyfriend” and fans herself with the obituary. It’s the middle of July and everyone is wearing black. She’s overheating. Sue her.

He cries. He does. Natasha can’t tell if the tears are real or not. He killed him and he’s crying. She guesses that happens. Murder isn’t always clean. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hurts more than being killed. Because you have to live with it. You have to carry all your victims inside your body, they become your ribs. The blood your heart pumps. They become your skin, your scar tissue, the calluses on your feet and your fingernails. The soft skin behind your ears, the air you learn to breathe. You have to carry all your victims in your body and you can do _ nothing _ about it.

“You did it,” she says later, much later when her _ boyfriend _is in custody and she’s about to leave with Maria for dinner. “You killed him. Why did you cry?”

He frowns, hangs his head forward. His hands are cuffed and he looks tired. He treated Natasha pretty well in all honesty. Didn’t force her into sex, bought her dinner and let her pick the movies they watched. He didn’t talk over her, never dragged her into his drug dealing murdering job and he was a fairly good boyfriend. Not Natasha’s type, but he was a good boyfriend. A bad person, a murderer, a drug dealer. But in another world, he was a good man.

“He was my friend,” he says. “I didn’t want to kill him. But sometimes you have to do the things you don’t want to.”

Natasha laughs and looks at this man for a few more moments. “I hope you know I didn’t hate you. Sometimes you have to do the things you don’t want to. It’s part of the job.

He smiles and says something Natasha doesn’t expect. “You need to be able to go to a funeral without looking like you want to shoot yourself. The average person goes to at least a dozen and in your line of work you’ll be going to a lot more.”

Natasha furrows her brows and leaves for dinner, grabbing Maria’s hand, thinking about what he said the whole time. 

Three. 

Natasha goes to a funeral for Margaret Carter and sits in the middle. She knew her, she did. Margaret Carter was one of the first people at SHIELD who told Natasha something that stuck with her for life.

“You are not what they made you into,” Agent Carter had said with such ease. She wasn’t even looking at Natasha, she was flipping through some paperwork as Natasha stared at her. “You are what you choose to be. Don’t let your past self control what your future self may be.”

She had looked up then, her eyes boring into Natasha’s. “Let yourself be free, child. Let yourself be free.”

She doesn’t cry at the funeral, she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t want to. It’s fine. She’s fine. Everything is fine.

She goes to the bathroom and leans against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. This is not what she wanted. This is not what she had planned. She was supposed to be stone, marble. Supposed to stand perfect. Natasha hasn’t cried in years, why start now?

“You’re not going to die,” Agent Carter said smoothly, brushing back Natasha’s sweaty hair. Everything hurt and stung and felt bloody. “You hear? I won’t let you. You’re too young and there’s too much for you to do.”

Natasha shuts her eyes and looks in the mirror. It’s a single stall and there’s soft music carrying from the funeral outside. 

“You are full of grief,” Agent Carter tells Natasha one morning when Natasha is in medical. “And you’ve been ignoring it.”

Natasha rolls her head to look at Carter, the movement hurts. “No one I know has died.”

Agent Carter pursed her lips and grabbed onto Natasha’s hand. “They don’t have to for you to be in mourning."

Natasha wipes her eyes and heaves a few breaths, tries to control her thoughts. Her heart. Her pain. How this was grief and she had to confront it now. 

Agent Carter leaves a book by Anne Carson in Natasha’s locker before an undercover mission. When Natasha opens it, she finds it worn and reread and loved. There is an inscription in the front. 

_ Natasha, _

_ You must let go of all the things that hold you onto someone you are no longer. You have to look in the mirror and recognize yourself. _

Natasha finds a spot in the back in the middle of Sharon’s speech. In another life, Natasha would be up there, talking about Agent Carter in a fond yet tired voice.

The book had a highlighted few sentences. Carter had done it. Natasha feels herself become undone from the stems of her being. Everything felt different now.

“I hope you know that I care deeply for you,” Agent Carter informs Natasha at a Christmas party. “And I need you to take better care of yourself. I need you to be living and not just existing.” 

Natasha snaps herself out of her daze, she’s fine. Everything’s fine. She wonders how everyone else is doing. How they feel. How they are going to sleep knowing someone is gone and the world won’t ever be the same.

Natasha cries when she gets back to the tower, curls herself up into a ball with LiHo and sobs for so long that eventually, she runs out of tears and her mouth is just open and agape with pain. Clint finds her later, tries to do something. Calls Maria. And they both realize there is nothing they can do but let Natasha mourn.

_"Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief."_

Four.

When Maria Hill disappears for halfway through the workday, Natasha gets worried. They’re almost dating, have slept together more than a few times and Maria has watched LiHo when Natasha’s been out and away.

“Hill?” Natasha says as she lets herself into Maria’s apartment. “Maria?”

Maria is frantically packing a suitcase in her bedroom, her hair is a mess and she looks like she’s been crying. She looks in pain.

“Jesus Christ,” Natasha gasps slightly as she looks at the brunette. “What happened?”

Maria turns to her in a shakey motion, her blazer is thrown over the vanity chair and her hair has been taken out of the neat bun it’s normally in. Her eyes are glassy and everything about her seems thrown off its orbit. “My father died.”

“Holy shit,” Natasha says in return. “Are you okay?”

Maria breaks and starts to cry. Curling into herself. She reminds Natasha of the girl from her first funeral so long ago. 

“I hated him. God, I hated him so much. But he’s gone. He’s dead and I always thought I had more time to tell him everything I’ve been meaning to say.”

Natasha pulls Maria into her arms and runs her hands through her hair. Rocks them gently back and forth, kisses Maria’s hairline. “Let’s lay down. You need rest, babe. Rest.”

So, Natasha goes to the funeral for Maria’s dad. Holding Maria’s hand the whole time.

It rains, which seems suiting. Maria’s stepmother sits next to them wearing a black veil over her head. Natasha watches Maria out of the corner of her eye. Maria hasn’t cried much that day, just looked ahead with a neutral expression. Her hands shake sometimes, someone will say his name or say _ sorry for your loss _and Maria’s hands would shake slightly. Or she would clench her fists and jaw, try to make herself small. It takes Natasha a moment to realize why, but when she does- she wants to hurt something.

The funeral is done well. For a terrible man, he has a beautiful funeral. It’s such a shame, this beauty should’ve been saved for someone else. Someone better.

“Thank you for coming,” Maria says when everyone leaves. Gives hugs, smiles even though it falls flat around the eyes. Natasha watches from the background, sees the way people squeeze Maria. The protective way some of the ladies she knew from childhood stand around her. Wipe the tears from the bottom of her eyes. Say words that make Maria’s face break between a smile and a sob.

Maria smokes a cigarette and Natasha frowns. “My father just died. Give me a break.”

“I know,” Natasha answers, sits down and leans against the brick wall with Maria. “I just didn’t take you for a smoker.”

Maria didn’t answer quickly, took a few drags before she did. “I haven’t in a while. I just felt like I needed one today.”

“That’s okay, just don’t make it a habit,” Natasha smiles, joking. Maria laughs dryly, shrugs. 

“My friend’s kid asked me if he’s going to heaven. I told her I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it there, the kid nodded. Like she understood. She said that men like him don’t need an afterlife because they already abused their power on earth.”

“Wow,” Natasha mouths quietly. “Some kid.”

Maria hums in agreement, “I wish I knew where he’s gonna go. Because he doesn’t deserve it.”

Natasha kisses Maria and doesn’t even mind the cigarette breath. It’s a funeral and it should be sad but Natasha is glad Maria’s father is dead. She’s glad that she can hold Maria close, that she can be there when Maria needs to cry, can share the same air even though it’s tainted by smoke and grief.

(Plus one.)

Maria gets invited to her college best friend's wedding. She bumps shoulders with Natasha, a smile on her face. “Be my date?”

Natasha kisses her with a grin on her face, “I’m insulted you even have to ask.”

They dance at the wedding and Natasha steals Maria’s food from her plate even though they have the same meal. They sleep wrapped up into each other and it’s nice. It’s really nice.

Then someone asks Natasha where she went to school and Natasha says she went to a boarding school in Russia. They ask which one and Natasha has to excuse herself.

“You’re fine,” Natasha tells herself into the mirror. “Nothing is wrong.”

_ You are full of grief, _Agent Carter’s voice rings in the back of her head.

Natasha takes a deep breath and focuses on the fact that she is alive and okay and not alone. _ Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.” _

Natasha doesn’t realize she’s crying until everything is blurry and she can’t remember why she is even here. Why she is alive or how long she has been alive or why this is a wedding and not a funeral and no one is dead.

Everything feels so fucking heavy. 

“Nat?” Maria says as she opens the hotel room door. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m a walking funeral.”

Maria moves onto the bed next to Natasha and pulls her into her arms. “Natasha, you’re not a walking funeral. You are _ alive _ and _ beautiful _ and I love you.”

“I love you too,” Natasha whispers. “But I’m not okay, Maria. And I won’t ever be. I will always be like this. This fucking… walking tragedy full of grief and rage.”

Maria stays quiet, runs her hands through Natasha’s newly cut hair.

“Maria, I need you to go and leave because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not be like this.”

“Natasha, I love you for everything you are. The fact that you think you might always be grief-filled and hurt doesn’t scare me. I am here for you and you are here for me. I love you."

Natasha leans against Maria, a sturdy person who loves Natasha and who Natasha loves. Maria kisses her hairline and face and lips. Natasha thinks for half a moment before she speaks. 

“We should get married.”

Maria's smile is worth it and Natasha doesn't look back.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you all enjoyed!! kudos and comments warm my heart!!
> 
> [my tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hellotomyoldheart)
> 
> [my other tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/exlosers)


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